


There's A Little Place, A Place Called Space

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Everyone's sober for once, I have nothing else to say for myself, M/M, These people actually like each other, They get a little bit rough but it's fully consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 17:38:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6668071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do you like it like that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's A Little Place, A Place Called Space

**Author's Note:**

> As the tags imply, I'm freaking out a little at how _nice_ this story is. I mean, Alfred's not a happy person, and he's probably in near-constant pain from the various times he's been stabbed in his soft bits- but we knew that! The next story I write will be truly depraved. I promise.   
>  The title and the summary come from Patti Smith's song Land/Land Of A Thousand Dances/La Mer De.  
> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

Large, old houses enfold you. They collect people, the way that the people who live in such houses usually collect knickknacks, or art, or furniture. It must be something to do with all of that space. There's so much of it, that it even loses track of itself. When Lucius is in the Wayne house, he always thinks of the show from his childhood about the man with the blue box that was so much bigger on the inside- or of the book about the house that contained far more space than it should have. This is 'Stately Wayne Manor'- as Lucius has seen it described in print, without a shred of irony. When people speak the words, though, the irony's always there; contained, somehow, in the words themselves, if not in the speaker's tone. That must be something about space, too. A word can be so small, but contain such a volume of meaning.  
It doesn't happen all at once, this enfolding, or Lucius would have noticed. Though, in real life, things don't usually happen all at once. When they do, it's like falling. Not jumping, of course, because to jump, you'd have to see the drop coming. Falling happens without your permission; it's an agreement between gravity and your body, and they don't need your ascent to do what they will. Without noticing, Lucius has become a part of Wayne Manor.   
When he starts sleeping there, it's out of necessity. They're working into the night, and by the time he realizes he's tired, he's far too tired to safely drive himself home. The first time, Alfred looks put out. I could drive you, you know, he says, in that voice that pinches your ears like a tight shoe pinches your toes. Though, Lucius can't imagine how this would be more convenient than just letting him sleep on the couch. They certainly don't want for couches. Lucius only needs one. Though, he thinks, that he could sort of make a tour out of it: a different couch every night. It'd be a fun feature for his blog- if it didn't endanger his own safety, and that of everyone he knows. Nothing's easy anymore. I don't want to be a bother, Lucius says, because he doesn't. Alfred just develops a very constricted expression, and leaves Lucius to select his accommodations for the night.  
After a week of that, it's, Can't have you sleeping on couches, like someone's bachelor uncle. For a brief, electrified moment, Lucius fears that Alfred will insist on driving him home. Why is that an unwelcome prospect? Instead, Alfred leads him deeper, still, into the house. Alfred should be holding a candle before him, the only light in a swell of darkness, as deep and sweet as the night, outside. Here we are, Alfred says, in that bright way that may or may not indicate genuine gladness, this should be all right for you. It will become Lucius' room. Over the following weeks, his clothes will slowly fill the drawers and closets. Alfred will do his laundry, take in his dry cleaning. Lucius makes his bed each morning, but once he's gone to work, Alfred will do it again. Every week, Alfred changes his sheets. The towels in the bathroom- his bathroom- are changed every couple of days. He's supplied with soap, shampoo, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a terry cloth bathrobe. He is, Alfred informs him, a guest, after all. The word 'guest' is so very similar to the word 'ghost'. Is that what he's doing, now? Is he haunting the Wayne house? This implies a greater intimacy, still.  
It's funny, to Lucius, when he recalls that the first time he met Alfred, in the bar, he was sure that Alfred was trying to pick him up. They've shot straight through one-night stands and even dating, and lodged themselves firmly in domesticity.  
"You don't have to do all of this, you know," Lucius offers. In case it hadn't occurred to Alfred. That Lucius is a grown man, capable of doing his laundry. And, also, just in case some bizarre fairy tale rules applied, in this unreal place, and Alfred were somehow compelled to action. Until someone came along and broke the spell.  
Maybe there truly is some kind of enchantment at work, though. Alfred just gives Lucius a clipped, "It's my job, isn't it," and strides off to his next article of duty. The house enfolds, and Alfred seems to be part of the house. Lucius frowns. He's probably just insulted Alfred. In a way he didn't even imagine was possible, until it was happening. He apologizes.  
This gets him an amused smile. "Not much of that around here, as of late."  
"What's that?"  
"The words 'I'm' and 'sorry' in the same sentence."  
As in a fairy tale, it may just be best to accept that some things make no sense, and to leave them that way. Not every spell has to be broken.  
In that frame of mind, everything becomes much easier. It's not really so weird when Lucius thinks about it. This is Alfred's job. Lucius has a job to do, as well. It's one seemingly without end. With each new solution, they turn the corner into more questions. Is it wrong that Lucius is gladdened by the revelation of a new puzzle?  
Things like this don't happen to him. That's a good thing, he admonishes himself. The novelty will wear off one day, he's sure, and it'll stop being exciting, and simply be frightening and sad. The spell on _Lucius_ will be broken, then, and he'll be ready to leave the house. And all it contains.  
How sad that will be, though.  
But it's hard not to feel like a ghost, haunting this place. As though they're all ghosts, playing out their respective roles in some drama that may or may not have a resolution.  
So, it seems like a function of his function when Alfred sort of- 'corners' has too many nasty connotations, but that's more or less what happens. Alfred has Lucius cornered, between the edge of the dresser and the intersection of two walls. Alfred's body making another wall.  
It's like a dream. Alfred's close, but doing nothing, as though suspended, himself, in slumber. He's looking at Lucius, but he's not, taking him in piece by piece.  
Finally, Lucius speaks. "I'd make a joke about turn-down service, but that doesn't seem appropriate right now."  
Alfred raises his eyebrows. "How about it, then?"  
It shouldn't be a difficult question. It's not a theorem to be proven, or a logistical concern to be resolved. It's a simple two-body problem. Two bodies are close. They can become a lot closer. He can smell the clean-linen scent of Alfred's clothes. His cologne beneath. Because he's close. Close enough that Lucius would be able to tell if he'd been drinking. He hasn't been. His eyes are breathtakingly clear.  
"Perhaps I've misjudged the situation," Alfred murmurs finally. This can happen if you take too long to answer. Human problems get up and walk.  
"Don't go," Lucius says, doesn't stop his hand from finding the small of Alfred's back. It's like palming a brick wall, but touching Alfred brings unbelievable relief. To a pain Lucius hadn't even known he was feeling.  
"All right," Alfred says, his voice now low, lower.  
If he tries to think of something to say, he's just going to find himself in the same mess as before. So, he kisses Alfred, instead.  
Who exhales like he hasn't breathed fully in years, relaxing against Lucius, the fist of tension in his back opening like a hand. Lucius knows exactly how he feels.  
They're one body, now; a body in motion. Tangling and disentangling themselves, across the room, to the bed- Lucius' bed- to again wrap themselves up in each other. Alfred's face is against his shoulder, against his neck. He has his hands on Alfred's hips, pulling him in; feeling the way he moves. It's not sex, not yet, but the mechanics are undeniably intimate. You know a person, like this, in a way you didn't realize was possible until you were in it. He has to know more. Separating himself to take in a long, reviving breath, Lucius unbuttons Alfred's vest. Alfred obligingly throws it onto the bed next to them, and Lucius starts on his tie. That out of the way, Lucius buttons his shirt, pushes it aside. Lucius mouths Alfred's shoulder, now exposed, moving like a drunk man, then kissing his mouth again. He has his hand up the back of Alfred's shirt, naked where his back arches above the bed, feeling as though in the dark, around the skin's differing textures. Moving around to his belly, pulling up his undershirt. In some places, the skin is somehow too smooth. In others, it's raised, as though something small were lodged just underneath. There are areas that abruptly dip down, into valleys of velvet knot. With his eyes closed, it takes Lucius a ridiculously long time to realize that he's touching scars. Some of them must be older than others, and they must have been made by various means.  
"I look like a butcher's shop window without my shirt on," Alfred says. But he doesn't remove Lucius's hands. He allows Lucius to keep touching.  
"I'd like to see. If you don't mind." He holds Alfred's gaze, though it become uncomfortable to do so after a while. He's never quite sure when it's considered appropriate to look away.  
"Would you?"  
"Yes, I think I would."  
"Well, you know how this works. Help yourself."  
Alfred makes him think of the time that someone at his first job brought in a small cactus for her desk. Something happened to it, and its top broke off. Suddenly, there was a spiny lump of plant matter on the floor, and all anyone could do was look at it. It couldn't stay where it was, but to think of touching it would have been absurd. Lucius, himself, could only watch in fascination as his co-workers became increasingly awkward and discomfited. Lucius certainly didn't have the answer. Finally, someone produced pair of oven mitts from the break room, and picked it up with padded hands. The more pain something's capable of inflicting, Lucius began to think at that moment, the more gently you have to treat it.  
After he takes off Alfred's shirt, he kisses Alfred. The undershirt goes, and Lucius kisses him longer, feels Alfred begin to let himself go a little bit more. His hands are on Lucius', not pushing or pulling away or toward, but resting.  
Some of the scars are new. One, in particular, is still deep pink.  
"Can I touch?"  
"I don't know why you'd want to," Alfred scoffs, then, "Go on."  
Beneath his fingers, it's like marble, a ridge disconcertingly smooth and fine. He wants to ask what made it, but he knows he can't. "I'm not hurting you, am I?"  
"Don't feel a thing."  
He moves his hand, brushes his thumb against Alfred's nipple. "I felt that," Alfred exhales.  
"Good."  
"You can do that again. With your teeth, if you'd like."  
"Lie back."  
Then, he has Alfred underneath him, cracking like a wave; breath a jagged line of Morse code. He's changed. Something about his body's change. He's reacting differently.  
Experimentally, Lucius bites. Feels Alfred move beneath him, a long ribbon of breath first tangled in his throat then exhaled through his mouth. Lucius tries it again. There's the same winding and unwinding. He runs his tongue roughly over abraded flesh, and feels Alfred start.  
"The other. Please," Alfred says, his voice so low, Lucius has to all but still his breath to hear him. It's a power trip, Lucius realizes with giddy satisfaction, making someone feel this way. It's like sex, but slightly different. Sex isn't about pain, about hurting someone- even if they ask you to. Maybe that's the naive way, but Lucius can't think of it in any other. This is similar enough to sex to make him want to keep doing it, but the sensations it produces in him are all but alien. This is something else.  
He's found an answer for a problem that's never fully revealed itself. Again, it's like being in the dark: navigating a place that's unknown to you. You can guess the basic shape of the space, and the shapes of the things that're around you. But you don't know. This is, Lucius thinks, with a rush of excitement, some shape within Alfred he hadn't been able to guess. It must be, he supposes, one he held within himself, as well.  
He's kissing Alfred's mouth again, feeling Alfred's hands on his bare back. The roughness is exhilarating. Lucius has only ever been touched by people with smooth hands. Like his own. Alfred's aren't like his, at all.   
But some things are similar, each time. The mechanics of sex don't change very much from person to person. It's always a matter of friction. Like any creative act, it requires a kind of irritation. They talk about an itch that you can't scratch. Beneath your skin, making you writhe; making you sweat. He's trying to rub it out, now, against Alfred, who seems just as afflicted. He asks if he can bite Alfred's shoulder.  
"Just don't do it to my neck. It's harder to cover up the marks."  
This isn't something he's done very often. Equally appealing are the temptation to apply no pressure at all and that of applying too much. Breaking the skin. There's that expression about someone looking good enough to eat. Of course, you don't mean it literally. But your mouth doesn't think like your brain does. It seeks the sensations it understands. So, he's biting Alfred hard enough to make him cry out, a rough sound in his rough voice; hard enough to make him moan. Alfred's head falls back. His shoulders fall, as well. His hand is soft on the back of Lucius' head. Against Lucius' hip, he's hard.  
They're kissing again, and he has his hand there, between Alfred's legs. Just feeling him. The air moves between them, like a Möbius strip. An unending, twisting thing, like the shape their bodies make together.  
Then, they finally get the rest of their clothes off, and it's that. Only more. He's rubbing his mouth against the places he bit, and Alfred's holding him there, holding him close. Those rough hands are on his back, on his hips. And he's twisting. Twisting into eternity. Twisting, and turning back to the beginning. Back to the first time he saw Alfred. That little flutter of the innards before he knew who Alfred was and what he wanted. When he was just a stranger, another human being coming out of the night. Unknown.  
He's become known. Now that Lucius has seen him, felt him, undressed. Now that they're touching each other.  
"Like this," Alfred says softly, his hand on Lucius'.  
"Like this," Lucius repeats, feeling the movement of Alfred's hips. Watching him. Feeling him.  
Until Alfred sighs, "Fuck this," and pulls Lucius down, on top of him. Then, they're moving together, again, with both greater and lesser urgency. It hurts. But the pain is too good to totally want it gone.   
Until you get to what comes next.  
He has his mouth on the place that's become so familiar to him. He opens his mouth, but doesn't bite. He just exhales. He feels Alfred push and arch and shake. Now that it's over, Lucius is aware of just how much he ached. Had been aching for this. He thought he knew, the extent of that absence, within, but he could only guess. It's been hurting all the way back, through the nights spent in the cellar or on clean sheets in this room, back to the first time he saw Alfred. A stranger to him, then.  
And now, known him. Like a problem Lucius has solved. No longer a series of bare, stark symbols with no obvious relationship to each other. But a structure, with a coherent flow, so that Lucius can move through it, from one station to the next, at ease. As though moving from room to room in a house. A house that, like this one, takes you in. Wraps around you. Enfolds you.


End file.
